Once upon a time
by stilljustme
Summary: Scenes from Mary's first year at the French court.
1. The night before

**I decided to rewrite the first chapters – I assumed it would be easier if they were short (it was faster, of course), but somehow this feels better. At least to me – I'd be glad to read your thoughts.**

* * *

It was a quiet night in early summer, the sky a soft blue embroidered with pearl-white stars. Sometime in the past week, the nightingales had started their concerts, filling the air with sounds of longing and joy, but not tonight. They were stifled as was the wind, hidden as the moon – as if nature itself was holding its breath.  
Standing on top of the wall Catherine de Medici felt the silence settling down heavily on her chest, as if to choke her as well.  
But what her cousins, Spanish soldiers and assassins couldn't do, nature wouldn't, either.

"What a lovely night." Her voice was sharp and only mildly amused, the tone she used to scare servants and mistresses. They never knew whether she was serious or not. "It's going to be a lovely day tomorrow, don't you think?"  
"A storm is coming." Nostradamus was not fooled by his queen's demeanor.  
"Storms are always coming in these times of the year. Coming and passing."  
"Hopefully."  
"What do you mean?" She looked at him but the seer shook his head. "I've seen nothing, your majesty. Nothing."  
"No catastrophy? I'm surprised." Again, her tone was wasted on the man. Catherine sighed impatiently. "What is it? If you don't see anything bad, why are you looking at me as if…"  
"I see _nothing_ , majesty!" Finally, the faraway expression was gone from Nostradamus' eyes. He looked at his queen intently. "The future I saw when your first son was born is no longer there."

What her cousins, Spanish soldiers, assassins and nature hadn't been able to, these words did. Gasping, Catherine stumbled back, clutching her dress over her rapidly pounding heart. "What do you mean? What will happen to my son? To Mary?"  
Nostradamus shook his head again. "I don't know. All I can say is that Mary Stuart will change Francis' life. Forever."  
"Of course she will, she's to become his bride", Catherine snapped. "But will it be a change for the better? Will he be king of Scotland, of England? What will happen to the Valois?"  
The seer shrugged. "I don't know. Everything could happen. Francis might well be the greatest king Europe has ever seen. Or he might fall, and France with him."  
Catherine shivered. "What can I do?"  
"Pray, your majesty. Pray and teach the children to be strong. They will have to fight in this world."  
"Everyone has to fight, especially royals. Can they win, Nostradamus? If I give my life to protect both of them, can they win?"  
Nostradamus sighed. "I truly don't know, your majesty. But I do think that a mother's love can never be wrong. Mary is a queen but she is also a child."  
"A child and worse, a girl", Catherine murmured, more to herself. "Her life's been in danger since the day she was born. If this alliance should work, if she's to help Francis gain England as well, she'll need every strength she can get." She closed her eyes. "And to survive as a woman, she'll need even more of it."  
"And will you give her that strength, your majesty?" Nostradamus looked at her cautiously. The queen's mind could only be overruled by her motherly heart, but that part, so far, was reserved for the children she had born herself. If she looked at Mary Stuart the way she looked at the bastard Sebastian, the queen of Scotland would wilt and die before winter came.

Catherine looked at the sea in front of her, smooth and even like glass. "This girl will define my son's future, you say?"  
"I believe so, your majesty."  
"Then I will make her stronger and braver than any queen before."

* * *

"Bash?" A sound of flesh hitting wood, a bravely stifled cry of pain. "Bash, wake up!"  
"What the… Francis!" Bash almost jumped out of his bed, a knife ready in his hand. When he saw who the intruder was his first reaction was to put the blade away, but then again - not even the worst tempest could wake his little brother once he slept. If he had woken up and walked down the corridors to Diane's chambers all by himself, something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

He cleared his suddenly very dry throat. "Francis, what happened?"  
The heir of France stared at his big brother, apparently startled by the reaction. "Did I wake you up?"  
Bash frowned, only slightly calmed by the little one's obvious lack of fear. "It's past midnight, Francis. Of course you woke me up. I thought the castle was on fire to make you get up in the middle of the night!"  
"Oh… I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep, I didn't think…" Guilt showed on prince's face, causing his lower lip to tremble until he bit it.  
Finally pushing the knife back into the wood next to his pillow, Bash forced himself to smile. "Don't do that, little brother. It won't look good tomorrow when you see your bride."

Hit the mark. Francis stopped biting his lips as his cheeks and ears started glowing. "That's why…" he shrugged, obviously too ashamed to speak.  
After a moment of gloating – at least he would never be forced to marry any foreign girl – Bash finished the sentence. "That's why you can't sleep?"  
The six-year-old nodded.  
"Why?"  
Up to now, Francis had seemed downright enthusiastic to meet the girl he was to marry. A queen of five years, crowned shortly after she was born. Bash stifled an incredulous laughter. It was ridiculous. Both the fact that a girl younger than him should already have the same honors as his father had, and the fact that her own people were unable to protect her and therefore would send her to a foreign court. He didn't know how to play chess yet, but a queen wasn't supposed to be treated like a pawn, was she?  
"What are you scared of?" No matter his own thoughts and perspectives, he would not let his brother suffer from this crazy world if he could hinder it.  
"I'm scared that…" Francis took a deep breath. "Bash, do you think she will like me?"  
"Of course she will!" Bash smiled, feeling his heart melt toward the boy who would one day command his every step. Sometimes he wondered how Francis could be Catherine's son – he had nothing of her malice, nothing of her cunning. He was just good. And whether the queen liked it or not, Bash had sworn himself always to protect him.

"Francis!"  
Speaking of the queen – she rushed in without knocking just as the boys hugged, and harshly tore them apart. "You should be asleep, my dear, tomorrow is an important day. You can't just walk around here all night." The smiled she still found for her son was all but gone when she looked at the king's bastard. "Where's your mother?"  
Bash swallowed. He had learned not to answer that question. She would hit him anyway, and telling her what she already knew for Bash felt like betraying his mother.  
Tonight, however, Catherine made do with glaring at him as she led Francis out of the room. "You will stay in here tomorrow", she said at the door, without looking back. "The queen of Scotland will sooner or later happen to see you but she – and you – should know your place by then." Only now she turned her head, and Bash forced himself to hold the glance. He couldn't show how terrified he was by the queen's hatred, not if he wanted Francis to overcome his own fear. "Yes, your majesty." His voice quivered but he managed to smile at his brother as the doors closed, leaving him alone once again.


	2. Arrival

Francis fell asleep eventually, but it didn't turn out a peaceful rest. When his mother had led him back to his chambers, they had passed dozens of servants, knights,… everyone seemed to be on their feet despite the late hour. Obviously, the French court was not yet ready for their guest, so how was he supposed to be prepared?

Mary Stuart. The name sounded beautiful, wild, and strong. Everything he himself was not, Francis realized when he looked at his reflection in the window. The wind that had held back at night now roared around the castle, chasing clouds and seabirds over the grey sky.  
"Francis!" His mother stood at the door. She too was beautiful and strong – and sometimes, Francis knew, she could be cruel. To others, however, not to him or his younger sister. "You look tired. Bash shouldn't have kept you awake for so long."  
The queen's eyes wandered up and down, examining every inch of her precious son. By daylight, dim as it might be, Nostradamus' words held less of a threat than they had at night. Of course, Mary would change her son – a man never forgot his first woman, no matter how many he had afterwards, no matter how powerful they made him. Catherine had learned that the hard way with Diane de Poitiers. Not only was that bitch still getting richer, her son had a permanent lodging in the castle. Bash lived right at his future king's side, and Francis downright adored his bastard brother. He had a heart of gold, that boy of hers, in a world where stealth was needed.  
"He didn't!" The prince shook his head. "I came looking for him because… I couldn't sleep." He forced himself, as he had seen Bash doing it hours ago, to hold his mother's astonished glance. "I was scar… nervous about today." He swallowed, and for a moment, Catherine's knees went weak with the urge to embrace her son, hide him beneath her skirts so he would never get hurt. He was so young! Six years and already too stubborn to admit he was scared, even to his own mother. He shouldn't be forced to marry that child from Scotland, a child just like him. There were more princesses out there to be wed one day, why on earth had Henry chosen the one whose life was in constant danger and who made Nostradamus stop seeing Francis' future?  
"Mother?" Francis looked at his reflection once more. "Do you think she will like me?" Bash's reassurance had helped, but then again, Bash was not royal, not a girl. What did he know about the taste of queens?  
"Of course she will!" Catherine shook her head. "Why wouldn't she? Let's go and greet her." With a wink she turned around and led him and her ladies-in-waiting to the courtyard, relieved to see her son's smile returning – and utterly unaware that the reason for said smile was not so much self-confidence but the fact that she had chosen the same words Bash had used last night. One day, Francis promised himself silently, he would tell them – tell them that they were more alike than they knew, and that he needed them to be friends. They would listen to him, eventually. They would have to – he would be their king.

He was still thinking about his glorious future when the royal carriage opened. An elder woman stepped out and then turned back to reach into the dim cabin, ready to help her queen.  
Queen. For a short moment, Francis panicked. He was only a prince, he had no idea what to do – did she even speak French? Surely his teachers had told him that, but he couldn't remember… couldn't remember what to say or how to move. Did he have to kneel? Was he allowed to touch her, and did he have to kiss her hand (he hated that)? Francis looked down, praying not for the first time that he'd become invisible. Somebody else should do this, somebody like Bash. He wouldn't lose his head over a carriage.

"Wow!" Claude gasped. "She's… she's so beautiful. Francis, you lucky bastard." Catherine clicked her tongue and threw her an icy glance, but the princess' eyes were glued to the carriage. Francis still refused to look up. What if Mary thought he was ugly? Or stupid? What if…  
"Step forward", their mother ordered quietly, "take her hand and lead her to your father. She's under his protection but she'll be your responsibility."  
Definitely rather a task for Bash! Francis swallowed. He had never been responsible for anything before!  
But one day he would be responsible for a whole kingdom. The thought didn't feel as glorious now as it had only moments ago.

Then finally he looked up, just as the nurse let go of her queen. For a heartbeat, Mary stood alone on French ground, then Francis stumbled towards her, his mouth hanging open.  
She looked like an angel. Only... less severe and more beautiful.  
Without thinking, he sank down on one knee. "Welcome in France, your majesty."  
The girl stared at him, and Francis knew she was as terrified as he had been only seconds ago. Before he had seen her face. It was impossible to look at her and not be happy, somehow. "Don't be afraid", he added, as princely as he could, "we will take care of you."  
Mary frowned. "I'm not afraid" she answered pointedly. "You promised you'd keep me safe before."  
"I know! I just wanted to say… I mean to keep that promise." Francis cursed himself silently. _Take her hand and lead her to your father._ Why had he even opened his mouth?  
"Oh." Mary quickly looked at her nurse, then bit her lips and smiled. "Thank you then, your… g…"  
"Francis. I mean, your grace is alright, I guess. Or just… call me Francis, your majesty." Bash would laugh his head off when he'd tell him about the events.  
Again, the queen of Scotland smiled but to Francis' surprise, it seemed genuine now. "Only if you call me Mary."  
"Really?"  
"Really." She reached out and Francis proudly placed her hand on his arm to lead her towards the king. If it wasn't for Claude's barely suppressed grin, it would have been a perfect moment.

* * *

"Francis! What you're doing here?"  
"Shh!" He beckoned his brother to be quiet as he stepped close, following the younger's glance through the slightly ajar door to Mary's chambers.  
"Francis!" Bash stared at the dauphin in shock. "You can't spy on your fiancée! You can't spy on anyone, what are you thinking?"  
"But I'm not spying!" Tears bloomed up in Francis' eyes, it was obvious that thought hadn't even entered his mind. "I just want to know if she's okay! Mother just sent me away when they started unpacking. But she said Mary's my responsibility so I have to make sure she's alright."  
"I understand." Soothingly, Bash patted his brother's hair. "Take my advice; start with knocking at the door."  
Francis nodded, took a deep breath and then quickly marched towards the door. When he reached out, he turned back. "Bash?"  
"Yes?"  
"Don't tell her!"  
"Of course not." Bash winked. "I wouldn't want your future bride to be angry with your from the beginning." When his younger brother frowned, he added, more serious, "she's away from home for the first time, at a place where she hardly knows anyone. Give her some time."  
"Do you think she feels lonely?" The lines on Francis' face deepened. "How do you know so much about her?"  
"I don't", Bash smiled tiredly. "But I know how it feels to… be foreign." He had meant to say more, but not today. Probably never.  
"I don't want you to be lonely." As usual, Francis had a way of looking past the bastard's mask as if it wasn't there. Sometimes it felt good, but sometimes it was exhausting. "I'm not lonely, Francis. I have father, and sometimes my mother. I have Claude… even if that's not helpful, and I have you."  
"And you'll always have me", Francis assured, "I promise. I won't let you be lonely ever again."  
"Good." Bash winked. "And now go and tell her fiancée just that. And knock before you enter!"


	3. Mothers

"It's beautiful." Carefully, Mary reached out to touch the delicate structure in front of her, as if the gold would crumble beneath her fingers. Francis smiled. "I like it, too. It's even more beautiful than the king's crown. And you are more beautiful than I." He blushed as Mary started giggling. "Thank you." Then she became serious – she often did, as Francis had noticed in the past days. Mary of Scotland had a smile as bright as the sun, but there always seemed to be clouds nearby, ready to darken the light. "I wonder if it's not too heavy for me. I've also got the crown of Scotland, after all."  
Francis frowned. "But surely not at the same time. That would look s…strange." He had meant to say "stupid" but of course, he could not talk like this to a queen. His mother and even his father had told him that very earnestly.  
Mary quickly smiled again but Francis noted that it wasn't as bright as before. "Yes, it would."

"Francis! Francis, where are-" He winced as his mother rushed in. "I sent three men searching for you, where have you been? What are you doing here?"  
Francis tensed. He hated it when his mother was like this, when she treated him like a child around Mary. Didn't she see he was about to become a king? He could take care of himself, surely, in his own castle.  
"I was just…"  
"It was my fault, I guess."  
Suddenly, Francis felt close to tears. The only thing worse than his mother berating him in front of his future bride was Mary stepping in to save him. "I wanted to see the crown jewels of France, I was just curious, and…"  
"And so I showed her to make her happy. And then we talked and forgot to come back", Francis finished, blushing even more than before when he heard his own voice. There was no dignity in it, no strength. Why did he always feel so weak around Mary and his mother?  
"I see." Catherine smiled, not as radiant as the queen of Scotland but enough to make Francis feel better. "I am glad you get along so well, my dears. But now it is time to go to bed." She reached out to her son and suddenly, Mary's lips began to quiver. She turned her head away but Francis had already seen it, and though he didn't understand the reason it somehow terrified him to see her like that. "Are you alright?"  
Mary swallowed. "Yes, your grace. Of course."  
Your grace. Francis backed away, grateful for the soft hand of his mother. At least she wasn't angry like Mary – apparently, or why was she calling him "your grace" again?"

Catherine's glance wandered from one child to the other. "Do you miss your mother, Mary?" Her voice was softer as it had been with her son. "It is no shame to admit that."  
Of course. Suddenly, Francis felt stupid. It was not about him, not at all.  
Slowly, Mary nodded. Catherine let go of her son's hand to kneel down in front of her. "My poor girl."  
Hesitantly but gladly, Mary went into the older queen's embrace for a long time. Francis stood next to them, patiently waiting, ready to protect them against whatever there was to come.


	4. Summer days

Mary's first summer in France was brighter than any Francis could remember. The sun seemed to have fallen in love with the castle, it shone down on the grounds every day, waking both birds and humans too early and heating up the courtyard and the towers. Soon the daily lessons were shortened, leaving Francis with more free time than he'd had since he was four. Fortunately, Claude was too young to stay with him and Mary all day as she slept for hours after lunch. Francis loved his sister, but sometimes she was just… annoying. Sometimes it was hard enough to appear strong and regal without Claude giggling about everything he said.  
Mary sometimes fell in with her, but that was different. Francis loved it when she laughed, and even when she – cautiously – mocked him, it never felt as bad as it did with his little sister. Mary didn't feel pleasure at the inconvenience of others like Claude did – probably because she, too, had felt displaced and uncomfortable for the first weeks. By now, however, the queen of Scots seemed to be accustomed to her new home and family. Catherine made sure Mary wanted of nothing, and though she had become stricter towards all of them, she still had a smile and a hug for her children and her foster daughter every day.

"This is not good." Mary, sitting on the windowsill next to him, put her head in her arms. "Why does it have to be so hot in France? I'm _melting_."  
Francis grinned, but deep inside he was shocked. How could Mary, how could anybody not love French summer?  
"Is it never hot in…" He broke off, guilt-ridden. He was not supposed to talk about Mary's country, not yet.  
"Scotland?" Mary looked up at him and smiled bravely. "Not like that. And it rains more often, far more often." She sighed. "I miss the rain. And the ponds in the forest, everywhere. They were small and shallow and…" Another sigh, as if the weight of the world was lying on the girl's shoulders. "That would be perfect now."  
Francis frowned. "You can swim?"  
"Yes, of course."  
"Can you teach me?"  
Mary stared at the prince, delighted at his enthusiasm and aghast at his obvious inability. "How can you live here all summer and not swim?"  
It seemed almost like an accusation, and Francis shrugged uncomfortably. "My parents think I… well, I just can. The heat doesn't bother be very much."  
"Really? Cause you fell asleep yesterday in Lord Pays' latin lesson and blamed it on the heat!"  
On one hand, Francis loved the teasing spark in Mary's eyes – because it was _his_ doing, because she was happy and laughing because of _him_. On the other hand, he dreaded it – it made him realize how much he had to learn to be a good king. Of course, he wouldn't be crowned until he was fifty (he prayed every night it would happen like that, at least), but even then… sometimes he couldn't help but being sure he'd fail his father, his mother, his country.

"Anyway." Mary jumped to the floor. "I can teach you. If we leave now, nobody will see us. Maybe one of the ponds in the park is deep enough." Shyly, she reached for his hand. "I didn't mean to sound like I did, I guess."  
Francis shook his head as he took her hand. "Well, unfortunately, you're right." No, he definitely loved the spark. "And I'd really love to lean swimming. And then one day we'll outswim Bash."  
"Yeah!" Mary squeezed his hand. "That we'll do. Show him he's not _that_ good in anything."

It gave Francis a little sting to hear her talking about his big brother like that, but Bash had been acting strangely this spring. He had rarely been in the same room with Mary – the queen's doing, obviously – and in these rare moments, he was mostly talking about what he could do, being older and a bastard and everything; very unlike the protective, serious boy Francis knew. Maybe his father had heard about it, because he had started to take Bash hunting with him. It was the only honor Catherine didn't forbid the bastard, she seemed to be glad about it, even. Probably, Francis realized, because it was another way to get him out of the castle for most of the day. Only that this summer, everyone wanted to be outside the brooding heat of the stones.

"Wait!" He held Mary back as she started towards the park at the southern gate. "There are too many people over there. Let's go", he had to suggest something daring as well, after all, "into the woods."  
"Alone?" Mary hesitated, but only for a moment. "Okay. But you have to do exactly as I say, or you're going to drown."  
"I promise." Her energy and curiosity had by now completely passed on to Francis. "Let's go!"

* * *

"Francis? Francis!" Mary's lips trembled. "Help! Somebody help me, please!"  
He had done exactly as she'd said. But something had gone wrong, so wrong… "Francis!" Fully clothed, the queen of Scotland rushed into the water, towards where the prince had disappeared – right in the middle of the little lake. It had looked safe.  
"Help…" Mary stopped as her feet lost contact to the ground. She wanted to dive down but was crying so hard she couldn't breathe properly. It had looked safe. And it was so hot, she had only wanted to get away from the heat, she hadn't, had never…

"Arrhggghhh…" Francis dove up, seaweed in his head. His eyes, frantically, searched for Mary. "Get out!"  
"I'll help you." With shaking arms and legs, she started to swim. Was she strong enough to pull him out of the water?  
"No!" Francis slipped down again, swallowed water and coughed. "Something's here. I-" Then he was underwater again.  
"Francis!" Well, she would be strong enough. She had to. Mary forced herself to take a deep breath. She would save Francis, or she would die with him. They were to be together, weren't they?

It was darker than she'd expected, the water stung her eyes and her skirts were tugging at her at once, sliding between her legs and slowing her down. Mary moved forwards, praying that she was swimming at least in Francis' direction. But already she was out of breath. She had to get up again, and then down, and then… something held her back.  
Mary screamed, and water filled her mouth. She couldn't get up. She would die, and Francis with her, she had killed him and it was her fault and her head exploded and…

* * *

"Francis!" A young voice, as scared as she felt.  
"Bash, stop!" An older voice, filled with dignity and anger. Then bodies splashing through water, cold hands grabbing her, pulling her up into a world of coldness and light.  
"Mary? Mary, are you alright?"  
She was supposed to answer, but she didn't feel her lips anymore. Or her eyes, but she was obviously crying, and after a second she remembered why, because her stupid, stupid idea had killed Francis, the son of the man who was now looking down on her, worry in his face.  
"Mary?" Henry turned to Bash. "Ride home, tell Nostradamus to get ready."  
Bash's face was as pale as Mary's. He shook his head. "Not until I know he's okay."  
At this, Mary started sobbing. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry, it was my f…fault… I…"  
"Shh… it's alright." Clumsily, Henry stroked Mary's cheek. She saw the gesture more than she felt it. "You're safe. That's what matters now."  
"Francis…"  
"Will answer for this", Henry finished the sentence grimly, "but now…"  
"Mary?"  
Bash was at his brother's side before anyone else could react. "Francis!"  
"Is she alright?" The prince's voice was weak with fear.  
Bash looked at her. Sobbing haltlessly, Mary nodded. "I'm sorry", she whispered again, but whatever Bash answered got lost in the whirl of darkness that unfolded around her.


	5. Surface

They both fell ill after the incident, and had to spend the still bright summer days inside, in darkened rooms under heavy blankets, fed with bitter herbs and hot soups, but that wasn't the worst part. Neither was it Catherine coming into Mary's chambers on the third day, raging and screaming, wilder than the younger queen had thought she could be. She would dream, years later, of the fire in Catherine's eyes, of the helpless anger and hatred she seemed to radiate to Mary.  
The worst part, however, was that Francis didn't seem to recover.

He had woken up when the men had pulled him out of the water, but only briefly, and since then, he had hardly regained consciousness.  
The words pierced through the fire of Catherine's anger and dug deep into her protégée's heart. It was her fault, after all, it had been her idea, and only because she wasn't strong enough to endure the heat. The _heat_! Once again, Mary's eyes filled with tears, as they did often these days. Now she was burning from both outside and inside, and God knew how Francis was feeling.  
God, who wasn't answering her prayers. Mary had started in Latin, and then turned to French, because surely God was French in France, and liked the language he had created here… but five days after the pond, Francis was still fevering, and while they got enough water and milk into him to keep him from dying, his mind was still wandering.  
And Mary started to recite the old Scottish prayers her nurse and maids were speaking when they thought she wasn't listening.

Bash froze when he heard the strange sounds. The window in Mary's room was open, and though her voice was weak, he understood enough to hear a familiarity to the old language his mother and uncles spoke. Native languages, created and spoken before the influence of Christianity. Pagan words.  
And one of them sounded exactly like "death".

"Mary!" As he ran towards her room, horrible images flashed through Bash's mind, each one darker and more incredible than the other.  
Blood. Demons. Dark shapes in the water. Francis refusing to wake up. It made no sense.  
Bash had never before believed in the gods of his mother, his father had told him that they weren't real, that they were only created to scare the ignorant; but even the bible spoke of demons.

"Mary, stop!"  
She hadn't prayed for Francis' death. Bash dismissed the thought the moment he entered the darkened room. Mary's lady in waiting gasped and tried to shove him out but she only stared at him, shaking, with red-rimmed eyes, on her knees, her hands clasped around a rosary.  
"What is it?"  
The complete lack of courtesy was the last reassurance.  
What had he expected? She was a queen, not an evil witch. He had spent the past weeks looking at her and Francis from afar, longing to be with them.  
"Sebastian!" She had regained her composure enough to use his full name. "Please, what happened? Francis-" she couldn't say more. Her lips were quivering and as she came closer, Bash saw fever glowing in her eyes.  
He swallowed. "I don't know more than you do." The relief was all but gone, as he remembered. Francis. Stuck between life and death, and there was no way for his big brother to help him.  
"What were you just saying, M… your grace?" He looked down, only now realizing his mistake.  
Mary shook her head unwillingly. "I prayed."  
"In… what language, your grace?"  
She shrugged, though her discomfort was obvious. "I remember my maids at ho… Scotland saying it. And since God doesn't seem to listen in Latin or French…" she gasped at her own blasphemy but didn't take it back, and Bash wasn't sure if he admired or feared her for it, "I need to… try something different. Like…"  
"Do you know the words you were saying? Do you know their exact meaning?" He wasn't sure himself. He only knew some pagan words, and the Scottish accent made much of what Mary had said incomprehensible.  
Mary swallowed. "I think it's some kind of blessing. They prayed at my brother's bed when he was sick, every night." Suddenly tears welled in her eyes. "But it didn't work. He d… died anyway." She looked up at Bash, so desperate that he reached out and gently took her hands. "Bash, I killed him! It's all my fault!"  
"No, you didn't."  
He knew the story, Claude had told him secretly, shivering with horror and pleasure: Marie de Guise had been pregnant again when her husband, the king of Scotland, had left for war for the last time. The child was believed to be another man's until its birth, when two things became clear: first, it was definitely the king's son, and second, he would die very soon. Sickly, weak, small – born to die, Claude had explained lightly, unaware of the fact that Francis had been just the same.  
Yet Francis had survived, and had become strong – until…

"I promise I'll protect him", he murmured. "I swear to god and all demons I will protect him."  
Mary squeezed his hands, stronger than he had expected she could. "I will, too", she promised, her voice quiet but as intense as her grip was, and so passionate she suddenly seemed a lot older. "I promise I won't let him get hurt anymore." Then the moment was gone, and the queen became a little girl again. "Do you think god will save him now?"  
Bash swallowed. He couldn't give an answer to that. Even thinking about Francis lost made him want to cry and run, much less he could talk about it. "I don't know. Anyway… stop praying like that, okay? Something's… wrong, your grace."  
"What do you mean, wrong?" Mary frowned. "How can praying ever be wrong?"  
"Your gr…"  
"And stop calling me your grace, I'm Mary!"  
Surprised, Bash looked up and couldn't help but grin at the anger in her face. "Forgive me, Mary. I certainly didn't mean to upset you."  
If she heard the mocking tone, she didn't show it. "What do you mean, wrong? Do you understand the words?"  
"Not all of them", he admitted, "but I am pretty sure that it's not a blessing at all but…" he halted.  
If he admitted his suspicion, Mary would always see him as a freak. How was she supposed to understand the pagan world where gods helped only those who were ready to help themselves (and even then, they proved cruel most of the time)? As Francis and Claude, Mary was raised catholic, brought up in the faith that God was watching over her, that her place in the social hierarchy was His will, granted and safe for life.  
Bash had never felt that way.

"Mary!"  
Catherine's voice prevented Bash from explaining. She rushed into the room without knocking. "Francis wants to see you. Now."  
Mary gasped. "He's alive?" When she started to sob Bash realized he had tears in his eyes, too.  
"Alive, awake, and very worried about you, so _hurry_."  
The children ran after her, grinning at each other. When they reached Francis' room, though, Catherine turned on the spot and stepped in Bash's way. "Just Mary."

Mary stared at her. "But… you majesty…" She had noticed that the older boy was rarely around with her and Francis, and that Catherine didn't like him, but now certainly wasn't the time to be mad.  
Catherine smiled coldly. "Not my orders, Mary. Francis woke up and wanted to see you. I'm sorry, Bash", of course she wasn't, "but you should go now."  
Mary bit her lips. "Please…"  
"It's alright." Bash swallowed. He would not give his stepmother the satisfaction to see him cry – it was an old game, and he was done with letting her win. Besides, Francis was awake. Nothing else mattered. "Remember your promise, Mary", he whispered, and for a moment he saw fear glowing in her eyes again, then she nodded and slipped into the prince's chambers.

Francis looked pale and smaller than a week before. Nervously, Mary stood next to the bed, waiting patiently for him to open his eyes. When he did, there was a flicker of panic in them, as if he hadn't really left the water, then his face cleared up with relief.  
"Mary! You're alright."  
"Of course I am!" She hadn't meant to cry, certainly not, but now the tears were coming again. Angrily, Mary blinked them away. "And I'm sorry, Francis. I'm so, so sorry, really, I…" She sniffed. "I never wanted you to get hurt."  
"I know. It was my idea, remember?" Francis swallowed painfully, then managed a smile. "I'm just so happy you're alright. I thought you had drowned down there."  
Mary forced herself to smile back. "But I can swim, remember?"  
"I do." Satisfied to see her smile, Francis leant back in the cushions. "And one day I'll learn it, too."  
"You still… want to learn it?"  
"Of course." He reached for her hand, just as Bash had done before. "If you teach me."  
Mary pulled her hands away. "That's not funny."  
"I know it's not." Francis' glance fell onto his now empty hands. "You don't have to, if you don't want to…"  
"Of course I don't want to! You almost died because of me!" Mary cried. "Are you stupid?"  
"I hope not", Francis murmured, "I'm gonna be king, I can't afford being stupid." He closed his eyes, looking tired. "Do you really think I'm stupid?"  
Feeling close to tears again, Mary shook her head, then, when she realized he couldn't see her, swallowed. "No, you're not."  
"Good."  
"But I can't go to any kind of water with you, okay? You need to find someone else to teach you. Maybe I can send for some teacher from Scotland, they often teach sons of lords and…"  
"Mary!" Francis opened his eyes again, beaming. "Say that again."  
Alright, he wasn't stupid, he was crazy. Mary shook her head, unsure what to feel. "There are teachers for swimming, maybe I can…"  
"No, not that! Not that…" Francis smiled at her again, but his exhaustion was obvious now. "You just said "Scotland". Not "home" – "Scotland." I'm happy you feel like that. I'm really happy you're here."  
Shyly, Mary reached for Francis' hands again and stroked them gently. "I'm happy too, Francis."


	6. Snow

**I hope you like it... and I hope you'll tell me about it ;)**

"Let's get back inside! It's freezing!"  
"But it's just beginning to snow!" Claude pouted. "And if you moved a little faster, you wouldn't be freezing that much." She raised her hands towards the pale sky, waiting for the flakes. "I like snow."  
"I like it, too – yes, I do." Mary sighed at the princess' incredulous frown. "But we still shouldn't be outside, dressed as we are. I don't want you to catch a cold."  
"You're not my mother!"  
Everyone turned around at the outburst, and Mary blushed. "Please, Claude", she said quietly, "we can come back later but we really should go and warm ourselves up a bit."  
"But I'm really not freezing! You can go alone if you want!"  
"Ladies, can I help you?" In mock superiority, Francis stepped between the two girls. "It seems we have a disagreement here."  
"Yes, we have. Your fiancée thinks she can order me around."  
"I was never ordering you, I just…" Mary bit her lips to keep from yelling. Or crying. Arguing with Claude made no sense. Especially when she was right, and this time, she was. It wasn't that cold yet – but Francis was already trembling. He would never admit it in front of the girls, but it was obvious – to her, at least – that he was longing for the warmth of the castle.  
"Are you cold, Mary?" He looked at her with actual concern, and Mary bit her lips harder. Since they had almost drowned, she felt guilty whenever she looked at the boy. After seemingly endless weeks, Francis had left his chambers and strolled around again, but by then summer was almost over. Studying had begun again, and the fighting lessons had shown the prince's lack of training and his weakness. Bash, always the stronger one, had stopped fighting with him, not because of Catherine but because the sudden difference in skill and power was too much for both brothers to bear.  
And then, two weeks ago, Francis had caught a slight fever again. Nobody knew where it had come from, and Nostradamus had driven it out after a few days, but it was another proof that the heir of France was not fully restored.  
And when she had noticed Catherine whispering to Nostradamus, her eyes filled with dread, the thought had crept into Mary's head that perhaps Francis was never to be the same again.  
It was all her fault.  
And he seemed determined not to see it that way.

"I… yes. A little bit." It was a lie as well, and everything inside her cringed at it. If her mother heard her now, she'd think her daughter was weak.  
"Do you want my coat?"  
Mary didn't know whether to cry or to laugh. How hard could it be to get Francis out of the cold? Why was he so keen on dying?  
Or was he mocking her? Was this his way of payback, to remind her how endangered her life was, thanks to her?  
"Mary?"  
"Maybe her lips are frozen and now she can't talk", Claude suggested. "Will you help me build a snowman, Francis? Please!"  
„If we go in, you'll come with us, Claude", he said firmly, without looking at her. His eyes were still on Mary, confused, concerned and so utterly innocent it hurt. Of course, it was no payback. If she had learnt only one thing about the boy who was to be her husband one day, it was that he always played fair. There was nothing of Claude's spitefulness in him, nothing of the harshness Bash sometimes wore.  
He was unbearably good-hearted sometimes.

"Majesty?" One of the ladies in waiting offered a fur-lined shawl. Mary pressed her lips together. She had only tried to save Francis' health and his dignity, and now she was about to lose her own? That wouldn't happen. Not for him, not for anyone.  
"No thanks", she said, holding her fiancé's glance easily, "I'm alright. Claude, let's build a snowman!"  
"Really?" The little girl beamed.  
"Really!"

Later on, all three of them would swear not to have thrown the first snowball – and probably neither of them was lying, because suddenly Marcus, Antoine and Louis Condé were amidst them. The heirs of Navarra, king Henry's nephews, had arrived only yesterday with their mother, and would leave before Christmas. A short and cold-hearted visitation from their parents' side, but that didn't hinder the children from enjoying their time together.  
"Three against three, each groups gets one of the girls", Antoine suggested, his eyes blazing.  
Francis looked at Mary. "Alright", he said after a moment, "I'll take Mary, you get my sister. Whom of your brothers do you want?"  
"Marcus." The answer came so fast that Louis, abandoned by his elder brother, gritted his teeth in anger. Francis and Mary exchanged a quick look. "Great", Francis said enthusiastically, "we're smaller, faster,… you don't stand a chance."  
Mary nodded and smiled at the dark-haired boy who quickly had regained his composure. "It's an honor to fight at your side, majesty."  
She giggled at the solemn language. In the past months, France had become her home, and Francis' family had become hers – except for Bash who was still more or less banished from everywhere Mary went. Apart from those fearful weeks in summer, when they had promised each other to protect the heir of France, Mary had rarely seen him, although he lived in the castle. But not even Bash called her "majesty" anymore.  
"It's…" she wanted to say "Mary", but stopped herself when Francis shot her a glance. "Let's find a place where they close in on us" he said and started to run, causing Mary, silently cursing, to chase after him. So good-hearted, so fragile, and yet when he ran, Francis was invincible. At least to her. Louis didn't seem to have so much of a problem following up to his future king. They charged toward an artificial ruin (another French folly Mary would never understand. Why do you construct new things to look old?) without looking back while Claude was already leading the others to attack: Mary reached the two boys with snow on her back and shoulders, some flakes sliding past the fur and down her neck, causing goosebumps at once. "We need a tactic."  
"Indeed we do", Francis grinned, then he looked closer at her and became serious. "But only if you're not freezing too much."  
Seriously? Now he was mortifying her in front of his cousin?  
"I'm fine." Her voice was almost as sharp as her mother's, Mary realized with a surge of longing – followed by even more rage, this time at herself. "I've been worrying about _you_ , but if you don't care about your health, why should I?"

Silence followed her outburst, just long enough for Mary to regret her words. Then, thankfully, snow started to fly from two different sides. It was a simple method, but it worked – soon enough, there was only one corner for Francis, Louis and Mary to turn to. Obviously, Marcus and Antoine were throwing while Claude was providing them with new ammunition. Mary looked around. They were trapped, and there was not enough snow to fight their way out.  
Louis knelt down and quickly shaped three, four, five snowballs. "Great tactic. We're dead."  
"We won't die from this", Francis snapped, to both his cousin and his fiancée, and stepped out of the shelter. "Maybe if-"  
A load of snow cut him off, thrown full force at his face, and almost took him off his feet.  
"Francis!"  
She was at his side immediately, leaving Louis to defend all three of them.  
 _Not a great warrior_ , a familiar voice in her head commented sharply, but Mary ignored it. Her mother had said many things about how a king needed to be, and Mary had promised to keep them all in mind, but surely now was not the right time, was it? Then again – _remember that you're a queen. Always. Every breath you take, you take it for your country as well as for yourself. Scotland lives in you, Mary, you_ are _Scotland. No matter where you live.  
_ "Shut up", Mary hissed angrily. Was that the truest memory she had from Marie de Guise? Not a loving mother but always a regent? Every letter was filled with advice and rules for her queen, even the last one! Christmas was near but it seemed as if her mother had forgotten about that.

"I didn't say anything", Francis protested, bringing Mary back to reality. Deeply ashamed at having spoken aloud, she pulled the elder boy to her feet. "Come on, we're-"  
"Not yet losing", Louis called from behind her. "But I could use a little help!"  
Without a word, Francis pushed past her and knelt next to his cousin. Staring at his enemies, he made fresh snowballs as fast as he could and handed them to Louis, who obviously was as good a thrower as his older brothers, if not better. Still, Mary knew as she knelt down behind them, their wet and cold defeat was only a matter of seconds.  
"What do you think?" Francis started throwing again, hitting his little sister and, for the first time, showing no sign of remorse. "I say we hold as long as we can and Mary runs for a better shelter. We can't win."  
"I won't leave you here! We're a team."  
„Saving the queen, dying like a hero…" Louis acted as if he hadn't heard her. "Not a very original plan, your grace, but I will follow you." He threw a quick look back. "Are you ready to run?"  
"No way!" Instead of handing the snowball she had just formed to Francis, Mary buried it in Louis' collar, making him cringe. "I said I will not leave you."  
"But maybe you should", Francis mused, slowly drawing back and to the side, urging her out of the ruins and into the open width of the park. "Because if you don't, there'll be no one to avenge us."  
"Avenging you won't bring you back! I have to take care of you now, not wait until you-"  
"You don't have to take care of anything, Mary, that's my job! Remember? I'm gonna be king. I'm the one the army will listen to, not you!"  
"But obviously you have no idea what you're doing!"  
"Well at least I'm trying to save you, not sulk around for-"  
"Shut up!" Louis cried out, exasperated. Then he quickly corrected himself. "Majesty. Your grace. Forgive me. But may I remind you we're not in real war today? It's just a game, as you can see, we're all… still pretty much alive. And I dare say we shall be alive once this-"  
Whatever else he had meant to say was lost in two handfuls of snow Antoine had thrown at him. "Sorry, brother. Of course you're right. But that is no excuse for your language."  
"Oh, I liked it." From behind them, Claude appeared, her gloves sticky and heavy with half-molten ice. "I'm just not so sure about the being-alive-thing." She knelt down and skidded fresh snow in her brother's direction, blinding Mary with snowflakes on the way. She closed her eyes, trying to shove the white mist away and hit Francis straight in the face. "Oh god, I'm sorry."  
He smiled sheepishly, at all of them. „It's okay. I guess I needed that." He extended his hand to Louis. "Thanks for reminding me. And for trying to save my honor."  
"Yours and the queen of Scotland's", Louis corrected. "Always."  
„And congratulations to you, gentlemen." He bowed to Marcus and Antoine who, in turn, couldn't help but bow as well. "To your victory and to surviving my sister."  
"Hey!" The girl pouted, then a smug smile appeared on her face. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm gonna tell Bash that you lost against me."  
At once, Francis' smile was gone. "I hope you get a chance to do that", he said earnestly, then turned back to his cousins again. "Shall we get in now? I'd like to warm up a bit before the rematch."  
Louis and Mary exchanged a quick look. "Rematch?", he mouthed, and she shrugged. Louis' eyes didn't leave hers as he asked, „same teams?"  
"We'll see." Francis' voice was flat but this time Mary wasn't worried for his health. This kind of illness wasn't deadly, but it couldn't be cured either by medicine. Francis missed Bash. The king's bastard and his mother had been banned from court since late October, and would not return before Easter. Diane's pagan background had allowed the queen to send her and Bash away when All Saint's Day as well as All Hallow's Eve neared, and from there, it wasn't long until Christmas, and from there… But as it turned out, it was long – at least for Francis and Mary. She found herself missing the serious, kind older boy as well. Being around him made her feel much more comfortable than being around Claude, and sometimes it had felt even better than to be around Francis. Perhaps because she hadn't almost killed Bash so far.

"Is this your first Christmas without your brother?"  
"What?" Francis, lost in thoughts, looked up to see his fiancée walking patiently beside him. "Oh… the first one I can remember. Diane was never at the feast, but… she's never banished Bash as well." He frowned. „I know his birth means my father has hurt her, but she shouldn't make my brother and me suffer for it."  
"And me!"  
"Indeed, and you. And Claude." For a moment, his face lit up. „Do you think if the three of us ask her to…" He stopped as he saw Mary's expression. "Perhaps you're right."  
"She would only get angry", Mary said softly. „And I…" She shook her head.  
"And you what?" Once again, Francis' glance was worried as it traveled over her face. Mary swallowed. "I'm thinking about Claude", she lied, "I don't want her to remember this Christmas as the days when her mother was so angry she didn't speak a word. That's a horrible memory!"  
"I bet." Francis laughed. His eyes searched hers again but she stopped and looked back so he wouldn't see the shamed pride.  
Claude was dancing beneath the grey sky. Snow had started to fall again, tiny flakes whirling around. The Condé boys had already reached the gate.  
Francis sighed. "I hope _they_ don't stay until Christmas."  
"Why not? It wouldn't be so quiet, then."  
"Quiet? How loud is it in Scotland, this time of the year?"  
"I don't know. But… when you're having a feast, the more people there are, the better. And in Scotland, that's what Christmas Day is. A really big family dinner. And we don't let the fire go out all through the day." She frowned. "How is it here? Don't you eat together?"  
"Eat? Oh yes, we do." Francis grinned. "I think you will like it."


	7. Complication

They didn't talk about Bash attending the festivities again – but when she found Francis at the gates, staring south for the fifth time on the day before Christmas Eve, Mary realized he was still counting on his mother to have mercy with the bastard. Or had been counting, judging from the tears in his eyes.  
"Maybe you should talk to your mother. Make her send a fast rider so he can be with us… at least for the turn of the year."  
"She won't."  
"Are you sure?" Mary frowned. "I knew I said it wouldn't help to ask, but maybe… if she sees how much you miss him, and how I miss him and your father, and – and _Claude_." She couldn't help the testiness in her voice. Her sister-in-law-to-be proved less regal with every day. A few days after the Condé boys had left, she had thrown such a tantrum that Queen Catherine had banned her from her own chambers and had sent her – to Mary. And while it was nice not to be alone at night, it was exhausting to be around Claude at day. From the instant she woke up, she was talking – about nothing important, sometimes not even to herself, as if the only thing that mattered was to drown the silence. A silence Mary had also feared but now desperately missed.

Francis tried to smile. "She can be challenging, I know. But she has a heart of gold. Just like you." He swallowed, and Mary added: "Just like Bash. And you." She had hoped for a smile at that, but Francis' expression was still somber.  
"Try it! Ask her, she loves you, she won't want you to suffer that way…"  
"I already did!" Francis cried, exasperated. „I asked her, twice before. And a third time this morning. She almost sent me away, too!"  
"Really? Why?"  
"I don't know." He shook his head, sounding defeated now. "She murmured something about blackmailing, I didn't really understand. But what I heard loud and clear was that if I mentioned Bash's name once again, she would send me into the woods to go searching for him, and that I wouldn't be allowed to come back before next year."  
"Yes, but you she wouldn't do that, don't you." Mary pouted. This was a new side of her foster mother, one that absolutely didn't fit with her experiences from the past months. Catherine was not easily angered, or if she was, she knew how to hide it. The only time Mary had seen and felt her rage was after Francis had almost drowned – and then it had been more than justified in Mary's eyes. The nightmares came less frequently by now, but some nights she would still wake up screaming, haunted by Francis' pale, still face. Needless to say that Claude wasn't happy about it.

"I'm not so sure anymore." Francis leant against the wall. "I've never seen her like this. I don't want her to be angry."  
"Seriously?" Mary looked at him. „You're the heir of France. She can't just send you into the woods, you could die out there!"  
As soon as the words were out she regretted them. That was a new nightmare to come. It was so easy to die. So incredibly easy.  
Francis shook his head. "I'm not talking about the queen of France now, Mary." His voice was hard with anger. "I'm talking about my mother. I love her and I don't want her to be unhappy, and I don't want to be the heir of France to her, I'm her son!"  
"The son who is the heir of France. Why can't you stop sulking about that?" She rolled her eyes. In the end, Claude wasn't half as annoying as her brother. Francis' perspective of his destiny, of his duty was so different to hers that Mary sometimes wondered how her mother could have agreed to their marriage. Catherine's children – while sure, they had hearts of gold, both of them – were still only that, children, full of themselves and naïve. Mary could excuse that in Claude, but hardly in the boy who was going to be husband.

"I'm not sulking, you just don't get the difference between a queen and a mother."  
"Because there is no difference! She is _one person_."  
"Not always! She can choose who to-"  
"Of course always!" Mary cried, fighting the sudden urge to throw the prince down the wall. She was trying so hard to become a good queen, a strong and hard and clever regent, and Francis was just… not. And still everyone respected and _loved_ him. Rage mixed with longing and suddenly, Mary felt tears in her eyes that she angrily bit back. Why was it so easy for Francis to be loved? And why did it feel as if nobody loved her?  
"And speaking about choice" she was proud of how cold her voice sounded, "don't think for a moment that the queen would choose her son above the prince. You're important only because you will reign one day."  
She had meant to hurt Francis but he only shrugged. His voice was even colder than hers: "Don't _you_ think for a moment you know anything about family. Or reigning, for that matter."  
Without as much as a look back, he left the wall.  
Mary remained frozen, unable to hold back her tears now that nobody was watching. Nobody – because she was alone, lonely in a big castle filled with people. Now they were even more, more cooks and more servants to decorate the rooms; Catherine had promised her that everything would look so fabulous nobody could feel anything but cheerful. Claude had laughed at that promise, a laughter that proved her Henry's daughter – but while it sounded strong and proud with the king, coming from a little girl's mouth it sounded… well, Mary wouldn't have said "crazy" like Francis had, his eyes wide with disgust, but silently she had agreed with him. Now, however, she felt a similar laughter bubbling in her throat – a laughter born by the need not to cry. That it hadn't worked for Mary now was only another sign of how – "France will never, never be home." She whispered it into the cold air, wondering where the words would be carried to. Would her mother hear them?  
"I can't be with these people. I don't belong here. They are stupid. And mean. And-" She clenched her fists to stop sobbing. "I will never be happy in France. And therefore, Scotland will never be happy with France."

"Well, let's hope that is not true. Although I admit it doesn't look as fabulous as I had planned."  
Gasping, Mary turned around and bowed awkwardly, careful not to step on her coat. "Your majesty."  
"My dear Mary." Catherine sighed. "I just saw my son running downstairs, fuming. But of course he wouldn't tell me what happened. Can you enlighten me?"  
Mary bit her lips. "I… we were… we had a disagreement."  
"You don't say." For a moment, the motherly mask slipped away and showed the queen's frustration, then she smiled again. "Well, at least you keep each other's promises. You trust each other. That's a good start. One of the most important values in a marriage – if not the most important – is that you can trust each other. Always. Do you understand?"  
With her lips still pressed tightly shut, Mary nodded. She did understand, and that was the problem: She couldn't trust Francis! Not with her country, not even with his own life, given how careless he was.

"Good." This time, the smile was honest. Catherine reached for her foster daughter's hand. "Then tell me your biggest wish for Christmas. Maybe we can work some miracles."  
"My… I don't know, your majesty, I…" Mary stopped dead in her tracks. Was it a trick? A way of testing her obedience? For of course, there was something she wished for, now more than ever, actually, and it would surely be a gift not only for Mary but for the others, too.  
"Yes? Say it. Don't be afraid. Quality has its price, but you three are our future. And, more important now, you are my children. All of you. And there is nothing I wouldn't do for my children. So tell me, what do you want?"

"Mary?" His voice was so soft she almost overheard it. "Can I come in? I won't bother you for a long time."  
"Come in!", Claude cried before Mary could answer, and ran towards her brother. "It's boring in here. What are we going to do? Can we steal some sweets from the kitchen? I want to-"  
"What is it, Francis?" Cutting Claude off was the only way. Mary had learned that the hard way months ago so she didn't feel uncomfortable as she nodded for her fiancé to sit. "You seem happier than this morning."  
"This morning where I said a lot of things I shouldn't have said", Francis answered, holding his little sister close but looking at Mary, with that look in his eyes that made her want to be his friend again, always, after every fight they had. Normally, she tried to keep her distance but it was Christmas. Why not make peace?  
"I too should… not have said everything I said", she offered slowly. To her surprise, Francis' face lit up. "Well, whatever you said to my mother afterwards, it worked. He'll be here by nightfall."  
"Seriously?" Mary jumped up. „He-„  
„Yes, I can't believe it myself. He's so close, yet… she really didn't want him to come. But you made her change her mind, Mary. Thank you. Really." He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently.  
She couldn't help but smile back at him. "I didn't really do it for you, you know. Not only."  
"Fair enough." Francis laughed. „But he's going to sleep in my chamber, not yours."  
Mary frowned. "You don't really think that."  
„Who are you talking about?" Claude looked from one to the other. "Père Noel is coming tonight? But what is he-"  
„Not Père Noel, Claude." Francis was used to interrupting his sister by now. "Better."  
„Better than Christmas?" She stared at her brother as if he was a ghost. Or a complete simpleton, which no doubt he was in her eyes.  
Francis winked at Mary. "Should we tell her?"  
She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe-"  
„Wait." Claude turned around and looked Mary straight in the eye, and for a moment Mary thought to see herself in the younger girl's eyes: for a moment, there was no princess, no egotism or arrogance, no second thought. She was just a girl missing and hoping for her family. "Really?" she asked, almost shyly.  
Mary nodded. "It seems like it, yes." She looked at Francis, wanting to make sure they were really thinking the same.  
Francis smiled. "Yes. Don't ask me how Mary did it, but Bash will be home for Christmas."


End file.
